


Meeting Trouble Halfway

by Savageandwise



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Dream Sharing, July 6th 1957, Lots of it, M/M, McLennon, Woolton Fete, wanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2018-12-02 17:24:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11514003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: Two boys in Liverpool whose paths keep crossing in and outside of each other's dreams.John and Paul before and during July 6th 1957.





	1. The Boy with the Beautiful Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to finish this story in time for the anniversary of John and Paul meeting but sadly life got in the way. Here is the first part. I hope I can post the rest soon!
> 
> This story is dedicated to @swaying-daisies and @aceonthebass you both were really confident about my ability to write this story and always had time to comment on scenes and offer up research. Thank you so much.

Paul must have seen the boy a handful of times before he dreamed of him. He was the type of boy his father warned him about: the kind who got into drunken fights and leered at girls. A Ted with greased-back hair, tight trousers, and a bad attitude. Paul saw him around town, buying chips, lurking around the record shop, on the bus. There was no reason for Paul to actually speak to him. If he was honest with himself, he was worried the boy might hit him if he tried to start up a conversation. He had a perpetual look on his face like he was angry with the world. Paul imagined if they ever did speak, he might tell him he understood. He might say he, too, often felt angry without exactly knowing why. He might ask him what had happened to him that he faced the world like a clenched fist, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

In his dream the boy was smiling, the smile was in his eyes. Most of the time when Paul saw him in the real world, his posture was defensive. He was handsome without the scowl. They were talking animatedly and he didn’t look away from Paul once, as if captivated by him. The boy’s eyes were a warm shade of brown, in the dream Paul was hypnotised by them, like they held all the answers to questions he hadn’t even asked yet.

The boy’s hands clasped the beat-up neck of a guitar, its strings worn as if he’d been strumming them mercilessly. He had beautiful hands. Paul had never noticed another lad’s hands before—not even Elvis’—and he’d spent hours gazing at pictures of Elvis when he could get away with it. When he woke up the next morning the image of the boy’s fingers stayed with him longer than he cared to admit.

The next time Paul saw him, the boy was waiting for the bus, holding a fag between his thumb and index finger. He gripped it in a manner that was rigidly confrontational, as if daring someone to make him stop. He looked like someone who belonged on a film poster.

Paul inclined his head when the boy looked in his direction. "Alright, then?" he asked. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could swallow them down. He wanted to ask him what songs he could play on guitar, but then he remembered that had only been a dream. He wanted to say he thought his hair was dead cool. He wanted to say: ‘Hi, I'm Paul!’ But there was no way to do any of that without seeming overeager and childish. Paul wished he could ask him his name so that he had something to call him in his head other than 'That boy' or 'Teddy boy' or ‘him’.

"Alright," the boy replied slowly. Paul guessed a lad like that probably had loads of friends. He probably had a girlfriend. The boy was polite enough. He didn’t say anything else, he just regarded Paul with squinty eyes, sizing him up.

Paul looked away, intent on seeming disinterested. He worried about it, about whether or not he was cracked. Thinking about that boy. That boy he had never met properly.There was a word for boys like him. Boys who spent hours making up conversations with strangers in their heads. Who sang along to the radio in falsetto. Who wrote song lyrics in the margins of their school books. Who had once smudged their mother’s eye-pencil along their eyelids to see how it would look. Who could sign their name with their right hand or their left. Who could conjure the image of another boy’s hands in their minds if they closed their eyes tight enough.

Paul dreamed of him again after they buried his mum. In the dream, they sat together on Paul's bed, each of them holding a guitar. In an odd way, it was like looking into a mirror. Their heads were touching. Paul could smell his hair, the scent of plain soap and clean sweat and the vaseline he used to style it. The boy looked up, the corners of his mouth dipping downward, wavered there for a moment of uncertainty. Then he smiled. Paul had never seen him smile like that in real life, joy colouring every line in his face. He'd only seen him grin cruelly, like a wolf, his teeth very white and even.

His mum's death had left a hole in him like an abyss. Every time he thought of her it felt as though he was drowning. He was smart enough to know what you needed to do when you were drowning was to grab hold of something and hang on for dear life. Paul’s lifeline had brown eyes, hair that glinted red in the sun like a fox’s coat. He had a face like a painting Paul had once seen in a museum. He couldn’t decide if it was an old look or a very modern one. But whenever he saw him, he couldn’t look away. It was safer to be obsessed with that face than to be haunted by the one behind the glass frame in his dad’s bedroom.

His lifeline was the guitar he borrowed from a friend, he slowly began to learn a few chords. He practiced whenever he could, determined to exude the confidence he had displayed in his dreams. Mike said he was always practicing because that way he had no time to think about mum. His brother had rare moments of perceptiveness.

He took a job delivering newspapers to supplement the family's income. _What will we do for money?_ That's what he said when his dad told him his mum was dead. _What will we do for money?_

He got the job because he couldn't seem to shake the guilt no matter how often he apologised. It wasn't hard work and he enjoyed the mindless physical exertion of cycling and the added benefit of being useful. And it distracted him. He kept himself on a rigid schedule of school, practice and work and the pain faded to a dull, weary ache.

The first time he saw the boy strolling along Menlove Avenue he thought it was a coincidence. The next time he thought he was still dreaming. Three times a charm. Paul saw the boy sitting in front of the house they called Mendips. He was reading a book, his nose very close to the page as if it was swallowing him whole.

“Hiya!” Paul said, tossing the paper so it landed at the boy’s feet. The boy barely raised his head to acknowledge him.

Paul wasn’t deterred by the cold shoulder. Not the second time or the third. Not the fourth. He was made of stronger stuff. His mum had always told him to stick with it and he could achieve just about anything. He wasn’t sure this was what she meant but that didn’t stop him from trying. He kept a smile plastered on his face. He never managed to say more than a few stuttered words of greeting but once he got up the nerve, he’d say something so witty, he’d make the boy laugh.

The next time he delivered the paper the Teddy boy didn’t even look up. He moodily sucked on the stub of a cigarette, flicked it away just before it burned his fingertips. Paul had been aroused before—looking at starlets in film magazines, at photographs of Elvis, his dark hair hanging in his eyes, his full bottom lip, that straight nose. While dancing with girls—but never like this. Like a fever, his whole body in the grip of something fatal.

He had stopped being ashamed by the time the dreams started in earnest. He found himself looking forward to sleep the way he looked forward to trips to the cinema, to ice cream and pocket money, to birthday cake.

In his dreams he felt that boy warm and smooth beneath his hand. He heard the soft huff of his breath, the gasp, the frantic hiss as he struggled to control himself. Paul woke, thrusting in his palm, sweat soaking his t-shirt. He clamped his jaw shut so he didn’t cry out when he came.

The next time Paul cycled past his house, the boy was watching him. He couldn’t possibly know what Paul had dreamed. All the same he wanted to run up to the boy, take his arm and ask him if he remembered it too: those hands crushing red velvet. The boy leaning back against the piano, his elbows playing chord combinations no one had thought of yet, Paul hovered over him, covered his body with his own. Every time they moved the keys cried out. The taste in his mouth after was foreign, bitter, green as plant sap. Paul didn’t even toss the paper at the door, he just cycled past without slowing down, his face burning as he remembered how he had licked his own come off his hand when he woke just to know what it tasted like.

The dreams, once as simple as a child’s song were now filled with messages Paul couldn’t decipher. The two of them digging in the soft dirt of the backyard. Unearthing coin after coin of pirate’s treasure, their fingers weaving together in the dark earth until Paul could no longer see where he ended and the boy began.

A crowd of people screaming held back by men in uniform. That boy’s hand on the small of his back protectively. He felt a cocktail of confusing emotions roiling in the pit of his stomach: lust, fear, affection. Paul took the boy’s hand behind their backs, pressed it hard. The shouts drowned out the song they were singing, but they didn’t need to hear it to know what it sounded like. Cardboard signs clutched in damp hands. The placards decorated in hearts and flowers. He saw the boy’s face in black and white, surrounded by grasping hands. “WHY?” one sign read. Paul didn’t know why. He just knew he wanted him.

People started to remark upon the change in Paul. How grown up he had become. How single-minded he’d become about his guitar playing. He tried to dress more like a Ted. He practiced styling his hair with Vaseline, earning a few smacks from his dad and a sharp reprimand. His father wouldn’t let him wear drainies but he made do with a pair of black trousers that were a size too small. Only when his dad’s back was turned did Paul dare roll his eyes at him. He still wanted his mum and dad to be proud of him. But for the first time there was someone in his life whose opinion mattered more than theirs. And he didn’t even know his name yet. This boy, this man, he’d gotten off to more times than he could count.

Paul grew more self-assured every night he dreamed of the boy, every time they crossed paths while Paul was awake. It had happened far too many times to be coincidence and he had become confident they would meet for real one day, that that the universe was merely biding its time. It was fate. And sure enough, Fate sent an ambassador: Ivan Vaughan. Ivan, that boy from school who shared Paul’s birthday.

He was in the record store with Ivan admiring the new arrivals and attempting to flirt with the salesgirl when he noticed the boy enter the store. The air seemed to change at once, heavy and pregnant with meaning like it felt just before a summer storm. Paul waited a moment while the boy asked the girl if some new single had arrived yet before gesturing to him and whispering to Ivan.

"Do you know your lad there? I've seen him around. Looks like he'd steal your pocket money, dance with your girl, kick your dog..."

He looked like a god. Like Apollo. No, Zeus. Poseidon.

"Oh," Ivan said angling his chin at the boy's fast retreating back. "That's John Lennon."

And the god's name was John Lennon.

"Mean sort?" Paul asked, though it didn't matter to him in the slightest if the boy sent a sea monster to destroy Troy or sent a plague of cyclones to torment seamen.

"Not at all! He just comes off a bit... he's a good lad. Musical. You'd like him actually."

"Would I? You think?" he asked, struggling to keep the excitement out of his voice. 

"Sure," Ivan grinned. "He's crazy about guitars. And you're the best guitar player I know."

Paul flushed with pleasure; the memory of his latest wet dream stabbed him in the gut with poignant intensity. He sat naked on his bed, legs crossed at the ankles, guitar in hand, playing a song. The instrument rested upon John Lennon’s freckled shoulders. His face was nestled against Paul's stiff prick.

"I can't concentrate with you there!" his dream-self laughed.

"Try harder, Macca." Though the answer was muffled he could make out the emphasis on the word 'harder.'

He didn't recognise the song in his dream. It was something about do you, don’t you want me to love you? He'd been caught between shame and lust, too distracted to concentrate and by the time he was fully awake the song had slipped away entirely. All Paul remembered for sure was how grown-up the boy seemed. And how shockingly aroused he'd been recalling his lithe, long body.

"Paul." Ivan's voice dragged him from his reverie. "Are you ill? Your face is all red and shiny."

"No," Paul said, tripping after Ivan awkwardly. “I mean... I'm fine."

"Good, cause I think you should come."

Paul gaped at his friend.

"To the fete. I think you'd really enjoy it. You know, bring your guitar. You never know."

"Never know?" Paul asked. His head was spinning. Ivan was offering him his dreams on a silver platter.

"I told you I play the tea chest bass for The Quarrymen? Skiffle, you know. Well, that's John's band. He might let you play a bit if he’s in a good mood. There will be girls there, you know..." He winked suggestively.

Paul tried to seem enthusiastic about the prospect of girls but all he could think about was John Lennon. He could finally speak with him. Paul would figure the rest out later. Somehow it seemed less daunting now that he knew the boy's name. Somehow he felt like everything he'd seen in his dreams had already happened. Paul already knew what his mouth tasted like. Knew how those long fingers laced in his hair made him shiver with pleasure. He was just going through the motions, killing time. All the clocks running down to blast off.

If he could only see John face to face he would just know. They would remember together.

“I guess I could drop by,” Paul said. “If you say there will be birds there.”

“Hundreds, thousands even!” Ivan assured him. “Wear your white sports coat, the one with the silver flecks. They'll drop like flies.”

“Aye, and me pink carnation.” Paul agreed, grinning.

He already knew he would wear the white coat. He’d worn it in his dreams only this morning. That song, that stupid Marty Robbins song was playing in the background as he put his arms around John Lennon. Their faces were close enough that Paul could smell the beer he’d drunk, the sweet smell of his skin, the soap that had been used to launder his checked shirt. In the dream he'd looked up at him through his lashes and smiled. Then he'd lowered his head to John's collar-bone and pressed his tongue to it.

He didn't know what happened next because he'd woken before he could see the boy's reaction. Late for school, he'd tossed off over the sink with his eyes squeezed shut, that boy’s face before him, Mike hammering on the door as Paul came into the stream of water from the taps.

Ivan's elbow in his ribs broke his reverie.

"You're blushing like a school girl! Is there one in particular you fancy, like?"

Paul eventually managed to shut Ivan up by promising to give him half his chewing gum.

That evening, Paul went to collect his stack of papers from the newsstand. He was singing out loud, Twenty Flight Rock, going over the lyrics until he knew them backwards. He was so engrossed in getting the song just right he almost didn't see him standing there. It was him, John Lennon, leafing through a music magazine with Elvis on the cover. Paul was so startled he couldn't move. He just stood there, one hand on his bike. He felt like his chest was too narrow to hold his heart.

"Hey," John said, lowering the magazine and gazing at him cautiously.

"Hi... um..." Paul's voice cracked awkwardly. John looked back down at the magazine, flipping the pages lazily as if he were in the comfort of his own bedroom.

"Big Elvis fan, then?" Paul asked, in what he hoped was a cool tone.

"He's alright," John answered. He sounded like he could take him or leave him, but Paul saw the sparkle in his eyes.

"You going to buy that? It's just... Mr. Smith doesn't like it if people read the magazines if they aren't going to purchase them." He felt like an idiot, like a prick with ears.

John raised his chin, folded the magazine shut. Then he rolled it into a thin tube and shoved it down the front of his drainies.

"And you're Mrs. Smith, then?" he asked. There was a challenge in his expression, daring Paul to stop him.

"I'm... just… the paper boy." He felt his cheeks grow warm but took a step forward anyway.

"Yeah, I've seen you 'round.”

He'd seen him around. He'd noticed him.

"Name's..." the boy started.

"John," Paul finished, unable to stop himself.

John's thick eyebrows knit together. Paul didn’t know if John was going to hit him or leave with Mr. Smith's magazine stuffed down the front of his tight trousers. He did neither. Instead he grinned, it made him look more like the boy from Paul's dreams.

"That's right, Paul."

Paul felt the breath knock right out of him. He knew his name. John knew his name. He wanted him to say it again: Paul. Paul. Paul. Say it again and again. His name had never sounded so right before.

Paul's whole body started to tingle, his stomach tight with a fierce longing to touch the boy.

"Alright then," John said squaring his shoulders. "What your Mr. Smith doesn't know..."

Paul was never sure what came over him at that moment. He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving John's face.

"He's not my Mr. Smith. He's just me boss."

He put his hand flat against John's crotch, right against his cock. John's eyes widened, his finely drawn lips quirked nervously. Paul knew in that instant he wouldn't pull away. He even leaned into Paul's hand slightly.

"Jesus," John sighed.

Paul laughed under his breath out of pure relief and joy. Then he grabbed hold of the magazine and pulled it down slightly, hid it beneath the folds of John’s t-shirt.

"There you go. Safe as houses," Paul said without batting an eyelash.

John started to speak but only managed a soft gasp.

"See you later, then?" Paul asked, grabbing hold of his bicycle and straddling it. He started peddling away to make his rounds before John could answer.

Later, when he passed Mendips to deliver the paper, he saw John Lennon standing out front. He was too flustered to stop and talk but he managed to smile and wave. John neither smiled nor waved but Paul could see the look on his face clear as day: the look of a man struck by lightning.


	2. The Boy Who Looked Like Elvis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which came first?  
> The boy or the dream?
> 
> John and Paul before and during July 6th 1957.

All at once he was in John's dreams. No warning, no hint of where he’d come from or why. At first all he heard was his voice: smooth and soothing, climbing impossible heights, sweet as honey and then exploding in a harsh, emotional rasp, like his soul exposed in the dirt. Gravel in the wound. It was a voice that sounded tantalisingly familiar, as though he had known it his whole life long. Not just the voice but also the song he was singing. The song seemed as familiar to John as a lullaby he had heard in the womb.

For a very long time he only heard the voice and then slowly, almost shyly, the boy slipped into John’s dreams. He began to recognise the outline of a person, just a crude rendering. A charcoal smudge of a slender boy with narrow hips, the blur of his fingers across the strings of a guitar. John had recently started to learn guitar. When he heard the dream boy play, he practiced harder, determined to match him. 

Standing at the bus stop one morning he was going over an argument he'd had with Mimi in his mind, just turning it over and over, like a pebble in a riverbed. Polishing it until he came out on top, which if he was honest, he rarely did. He lit a cigarette; he was so angry his hand was trembling. He turned to see if the bus was coming and noticed a boy just standing there, staring at him. He could feel the boy's eyes on him like a heavy hand on his shoulder. He couldn't see the boy clearly without his glasses but he could tell he was in school, Liverpool Institute, and he had dark hair.

John considered snarling at him to fuck off but then he realised he liked it. _Stare all you like, kid,_ John thought. _I'd stare too if I saw the likes of myself out and about. You wish you could be like me._

"Alright, then?" The kid said, nodding at him.

  


_(He couldn’t answer, couldn’t speak._

_It was the voice, that voice he’d been hearing in his dreams for months._

_The voice he was half in love with, familiar as his own._

_He reacted to it at once. He was weak in the knees, his hands trembled, his stomach flipped._

_The boy was real. And if he was real, maybe it all was._

_Maybe it was not a dream at all. )_

  


"Yeah," John said at last. "Alright."

He wanted to say something witty. John was known for his word play, his quick mind. He wanted to dazzle the boy. All he could do was stand there clutching his cigarette between trembling fingers and glare at the boy's shoulder, refusing to meet his eye properly, as if he wasn't worth looking at. Later, he thought of all the clever things he should have said.

Was it some kind of subconscious thing? Was that what this was? He’d seen the kid, liked the look of him and planted him in his dream? Had he let him bloom like some monstrous flower, roots reaching into every corner of John’s small life, stifling everything else? He didn’t think that’s what had happened. He didn’t think the dreams could be explained away with psychology.

Something changed that night. John couldn’t even remember going to sleep. He was sitting on his bed holding his guitar. He felt the depression of the mattress as someone sat down beside him and without looking up he knew it was the boy.

"Are you ever going to look at me? Really look at me?" the boy asked. There was a high plaintive note in his voice, slightly off key.

John shook his head.

“Look at me. Go on, John, look at me."

In the dream he knew that if he did look, he wouldn't be able to stop. He wouldn't be able to hold back. The boy set the guitar on the floor carefully and then leaned in, took hold of John's face. When he opened his eyes he saw the heart-shaped face, the slight dip of his wide, hazel eyes, the arch of his black brows, the bow of his mouth. The shell-like ridge of his ears, his dark hair like the pelt of some sleek, feral creature. He was smiling, no, smirking as if he'd just won a game.

It was the first time he'd seen the dream boy properly. He knew, without a doubt that if he slipped on his glasses the next time he encountered the boy from the bus stop, this is what he would see: that perfect face, those serious eyes, that stubborn mouth. 

John opened his mouth to say something clever because if he didn't he was going to explode, and then the boy kissed him. He kissed him open-mouthed, his lips soft, wet, inviting. He slipped his tongue into John's mouth. John could feel the boy inside him. He could taste him. He kissed him back, hungrily, light-headed with desire. They pulled apart, staring at each other anxiously, out of breath and wild-eyed. Then they laughed giddily and kissed again.

John woke in a state of desperate arousal, his whole body on fire as though he were in the throes of a violent fever. He tried to pull down his pyjamas and reach for his handkerchief at the same time. John put his hand on his throbbing cock and shot all over himself. He bit down hard on his lip, stifling a groan.

This hadn't happened to him in years. Flushed with embarrassment, he went about cleaning up the mess. He hoped Mimi wouldn't remark on the stains on the sheets. She could be brutal about that sort of thing. Particularly in front of the lodger.

"You're not an animal, John. Control yourself."

It wasn't like it was unusual for John to find himself in a state of arousal over the strangest people.

  


_(One of Aunt Mimi's friends who had come over to discuss a church event._

_A girl in school who had bent over to tie her shoe._

_The man who read the news on the radio in that crisp, posh accent._

_And of course, Elvis. He'd gotten off to Elvis loads of times, too many to count._

_And once he’d been stretched out beside his mother on her bed listening to her repeat some silly bit of gossip, gesticulating wildly he'd brushed her breast with his hand and had promptly gone rock hard._

_The shame had been equal to his desire to touch her properly._

_In the end the shame won.)_

  


There was some shame, too, in the fact that it was a boy he was lusting after. Though not the crippling shame he would have felt two years ago, a year ago. A boy called Nigel had kissed John once. He’d been older, charming, a man of relative means. John had let Nigel touch him as they watched the ships leave the harbour.

  


_(When we set sail… when we make our fortunes. We can go anywhere. Be anything._

_He'd painted the world in gold and silver._

_In stardust._

_And John had swallowed it by the mouthful.)_

  


They were going to sea to make their fortunes. They'd sail all the way to America. John had been sure that was where he belonged. Nigel had kissed him on the docks. And that's where he had left him, too. John had been too young for a job at sea. And Mimi had her claws in him. Deep in him. The disappointment of having to return to her with his tail between his legs was so great he hadn’t dared make any new plans to leave Liverpool.

John wasn't sure he'd even really wanted to kiss Nigel. It had been exciting because it was illicit. Because someone attractive and grown up had shown interest in him. He wanted to kiss the boy from his dream, though. He was certain of it. John wanted to do to the boy what Nigel had done to him. He wanted to weave webs of dreams around him, promise him the world, promise him America, draw him in and then assuage his feverish desire in the boy's pale flesh.

The dream stayed with him all day. He went to class and then to practice half hard, waves of lust rippling over his skin every time he thought of the boy from the bus stop. He had to rush to the loo and tug one off into the toilet bowl. And almost as soon as he was done he was hard again. It was absurd. And just when he was starting to feel in control again he'd go to sleep and wake up throbbing with need, his head full of strange melodies he couldn't seem to find no matter how long he listened to the wireless, no matter how many visits he paid to the record store.

He had almost gotten used to the dreams when one evening, standing outside of Mendips smoking a fag, something prompted him to look up. He couldn't see clearly without his glasses but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was the boy from his dreams. The boy of his dreams. He was perched upon his bicycle holding something in his hand.

“Hiya!” he called out.

John felt shivers knife through his body at the sound of his voice. The evening paper hit the ground with a thud. John thought his heart would jump out of his chest. After that he was either in front of the house waiting for the boy to cycle by or trying to keep busy so he could ignore him.

The dreams grew bizarre. Slivers of worlds so far away from the one John recognised he had no way to transcribe the images into a language he spoke. He understood that music was the vernacular. But his vocabulary was lacking.

John dreamed of red velvet, soft as ashes. It rubbed against his cheek. He inclined against a piano and the boy leaned into him. They fit into each other like puzzle pieces. Their instruments lay discarded on the ground, the light dancing on the shiny varnish, the expensive strings, tilted towards each other in their prone position like lovers.

  


_(The sound they made together on the piano was a kind of harmony, it couldn’t drown out the sound of his heart hammering in his ears._

_He was so excited he couldn’t catch his breath._

_Let it out and let it in_

_Let it out and let it in_

_Let it out and let it in_

_Begin._

_"Let me do this," the boy whispered._

_So John let him._

_His mouth was warm and wet on John's cock._

_He threaded his hands in the boy’s black hair._

_The boy’s hands were clenched in John's T-shirt._

_John pulled out as he came. Cried out when he saw his come all over that sweet face.)_

  


John woke up shivering, his pyjama bottoms sticky and wet. He cursed under his breath and, half asleep, pulled the soiled sheets from the bed yet again. His stomach was churning. He wasn’t an inexperienced lad anymore, this shouldn’t have happened one time, let alone two. The idea that he was not in control of his own body was horrifying. The shame was tangled with a desire so acute he could barely breathe.

He spent the next weeks in a haze of arousal. His nights were twofold: trying to stay awake as long as he possibly could, desperate to postpone the dreams. And trying to stay asleep as long as he possibly could, desperate to stay with the boy in dream-land.

He started to hate him a little.

  


_(Yesterday._

_All my troubles seemed so far away_

_Now it looks as though they're here to stay_

_Oh, I believe in yesterday)_

  


He started to wish he'd never seen him. Never heard his voice. He imagined hurting him, making him squirm just because he could. Crushing the boy’s fingers until he whinged in pain. Let’s see him play guitar then. Then, overcome with guilt, John would become convinced he would never dream of the boy again. He’d fret over it, try to conjure up every image, every song, every touch. And then he’d dream of him all over again. 

Julia was the only thing keeping him sane. She immediately noticed his distracted, agitated state. She teased him mercilessly about the girl who had stolen his heart. And when he grew sullen and secretive she bought him chocolate and patiently listened while he tried to find a way to confide in her without revealing a thing. John wanted to trust her but Julia was like a wild animal, beautiful to look at, and John had been bitten before. He forced himself to proceed warily.

"What's her name then? Your lady-love?" she finally asked while he practised chord progressions on his new guitar.

He shook his head and refused to answer. Besides, he didn't know his name. He kept hoping he'd dream it.

"Is she pretty?" Julia asked persistently. “You can tell me… I'm your mum…”

They were cut from the same cloth, she was like a dog with a bone when it came to gossip. She was indeed his mother. John found himself nodding in spite of himself.

"A blonde, I'm sure!" she giggled. "No. Black Irish. Pale, pale skin and ebony curls. And a fierce temper. That's more your style. Someone who can keep up with you."

John twisted his fingers together anxiously. He wanted to confide in her so badly his chest ached with it. He wanted to tell her about his dreams, about the parts of John Lennon that were so private he didn't dare whisper them in his own head, for fear the truth might be visible on his face. He waited till his half-sisters had been bundled off to bed before he grabbed hold of his mum's hand and pressed it. Julia put her left hand on top of his and stroked his knuckles with her thumb. She was so impulsive, so natural, so affectionate. Nothing like Mimi, with her cool judgemental manner. He wanted to tell her everything but didn't know where to start.

"Dark hair. Greenish eyes," he admitted at last in a whisper.

"Go on, what's her name then?" Julia said, squeezing his hand between hers.

John shrugged, his eyes trained on their clasped hands. What if he told her and she told Mimi?

"Don't you know it yet? You could...get a friend to ask...you could..." she paused for dramatic effect, "write her a love letter...write her a song..."

She had a point. He knew the boy went to the Liverpool Institute. He could simply ask someone.

"Do something wildly romantic!" Julia exclaimed. "Or buy her chocolates. Every girl loves chocolates."

She pressed a few bob into his hand and insisted that he use it on his mystery girl. She made him promise not to buy cigarettes with it. John stuck the money in his pocket, his face aflame. He promised to buy candy for a girl who wasn't a girl at all. For someone whose name he didn't yet know. For someone who would probably just call him a poof and spit in his face.

That night his dream took such a turn it startled him. It was not as physical as the previous dreams. The mood was fragile. A fantasy of smoke a gust of wind might disperse. He lay in a strange bed with the boy, on top of a floral coverlet. There was a pronounced tenderness to their actions. They gazed into each other’s eyes with their arms around each other. He could feel the boy’s prick, hard through the cloth of his pyjamas, pressing into his own hardness. They clasped hands, their fingers knotted together and then they kissed slowly, the desperation held in check. They kissed as if they were accustomed to kissing each other. John knew all at once what this was.

  


_(If I give my heart to you_

_I must be sure_

_From the very start_

_But it hadn’t even begun yet. Not really._

_And John already knew what this was._

_This was what the poets wrote about._

_What they sang about in all the songs.)_

  


John woke even more muddled than before; the lines between sleeping and waking had begun to blur for him. He could still feel that hand in his, that face turning towards his like a flower towards the sun. When they looked at each other in his dreams they never needed words, they could hold entire conversations in the space of a minute. John tried to do that trick the next time he encountered the boy at the chip shop. He tried staring at him, all the while projecting thoughts in his direction. 

  


_(I'm John._

_Who are you?_

_Can you really play guitar?_

_Will you sing me a song?_

_What happened today that made yesterday seem so fucking special?_

_Who is she?_

_Where did she go?_

_Where do you go to hide away?_

_Will you take me with you when you go there?)_

  


The boy sucked in his breath as if he meant to say something and then, looking down at the ground, took a step backward to let John take his place in the queue. He ordered his chips and walked away hastily. After that he couldn’t even eat the damn things. He gave them to his mate, Pete Shotton, who shovelled them in without asking twice. All John wanted was to initiate some sort of connection and he’d succeeded in bullying the boy.

He tried to distract himself in the time-honoured fashion: fooling around with girls. But he quickly discovered it was like using gasoline to put out fire. Each kiss, each touch, each time some pretty thing sucked him off he was reminded of how unsatisfactory it was. How far away it was from the intimacy of his dreams. The only thing to do was find out the boy’s name and somehow, somehow, get to be his friend.

  


_(The thought of being his friend was a double-edged sword._

_He wanted to know him._

_Wanted to confirm each detail of his dreams._

_His scent, each quirk, the way his voice sounded after he came, thick with pleasure._

_If he couldn’t know that, could he be content just being mates?_

_What could he even have in common with such a boy?_

_If we can’t be lovers we’ll never be friends.)_

  


In the end, finding out who the boy was, was easier than he thought it would be. He saw Ivan Vaughan standing with him in front of the newsstand on his way to fetch a magazine for Mimi's lodger, Michael Fishwick. John was standing on the other side of the road but he still recognised them even without his glasses on. He knew at once it was the boy, though Ivan was standing in front of him. He could tell by his body's intense reaction to him.

He saw Ivan at practice the next day and asked him about the boy he'd seen him with.

"Who?"

"Dark-haired lad, looks a bit like Elvis," John said. He looked down at his guitar, pretending to concentrate on restringing it. That way he could avoid Ivan's eyes.

"Who? Oh. I think you mean McCartney. Paul McCartney."

"Paul McCartney," John said, testing the name. He couldn't help smiling to himself. He liked the way it felt in his mouth. "I think I've seen him around. What's he like, then?"

John gave up trying to sound nonchalant and just stared at Ivan intently instead. Nine times out of ten intimidation worked better than an explanation. Ivan had shoved a biscuit in his mouth and was trying to talk around it.

"He's...well...I like him! Awfully funny. And he's been learning guitar. He's pretty good at it."

A kind of feverish excitement spread through him like a flash fire. The boy, Paul, could play guitar. It wasn’t just a dream.

  


_(Their heads bent towards each other as they played._

_The shape of his mouth as he sang._

_When he smiled it made John's heart stop._

_It's such a feeling that my love_

____

_I can't hide. I can't hide. I can't hide._

_That mouth._

_He leaned forward, kissed his fingers one by one._

_"I have something else for you to kiss."_

_The high arch of his eyebrow, like swallow's wings._

_"Let's see it, then.”_

_When he took him in his mouth it felt like dying._

_It felt like living.)_

  


"Why don't you ask him to come along to the fete? On the...when was it again? The 6th? You're not playing anyway. But ask him casual like."

Ivan grinned and winked. "Playing hard to get, are you?"

Anyone else John might have backhanded to next Tuesday but he liked Ivan. He liked his easy way and puckish humour.

"I mustn't seem like I'm too desperate for fresh blood. But listen to these lads... pathetic."

At that precise moment Shotton dropped his washboard.

"Yeah well, Paul's great. You should give him a go."

  


_(He'd given Paul a go last night. Fucked that mouth while he gripped his dark hair hard.)_

  


"We'll see if I like the look of him."

"Well, you'll have to wear your glasses then, won't you?" Ivan teased.

“Won’t need my glasses to hear him play, will I? If he’s as good as you say… well… we’ll know at the fete, won’t we?”

John had a way with people. He knew it. He could make people give him what he wanted. All he had to do was look at them, say the words just right and people bent over backwards to please him. He knew Ivan would deliver; he wouldn’t dare show up empty-handed.

When he dreamed of the boy that night he knew what name to use. They were standing very close, as if they were dancing. John in his checked shirt and Paul in a white sports coat. He was wearing it because of that Marty Robbins song.

  


_(A white sports coat and a pink carnation_

_I'm in a blue, blue mood_

_I'm all dressed up for the dance_

_I'm all alone in romance_

_But he wasn’t alone._

_Not with that expression on the boy's face._

_This was real._

_If he asked him about it he was almost certain he'd relay every detail of the dreams back to him.)_

  


John’s guitar fit between them awkwardly, he wanted to shove it aside and pull the boy closer. Paul leaned in, his hands on the strap around John's neck, he pushed his face into the space between his neck and his shoulder. And then he licked John's collarbone. He licked it. John shuddered with desire and destiny.

He was standing in front of the newsstand, lazily leafing through a magazine when he next saw Paul McCartney. It was the afternoon before the fete. He was walking beside his bicycle, clearly just about to leave on his paper round. John was surprised to find his shyness abate somewhat when he saw the boy's rigid posture. Paul was nervous. John took a step closer. At last he could see it clearly, that face he could draw blind: the line of his jaw, the dramatic swoop of his dark eyebrows, the small pink mouth John had kissed countless times in his sleep.

John couldn't think of a single thing to say. And then, without warning, Paul took the lead as if it were a dance. John tripped along after him with two left feet.

“Big Elvis fan, then?” Paul asked.

It wasn’t the cleverest of lines but at least the boy was saying something. John wanted to hide behind the magazine till his stomach stopped churning. He resorted to vaguely insulting quips to mask his shyness. If he came across as too arrogant or aggressive and Paul left before he could talk to him properly, he'd never forgive himself.

When Paul pointed out that his boss didn’t like people to read the magazines, John couldn’t stop himself - he rolled up the magazine and shoved it down his trousers. He was testing Paul, daring him to make a scene, daring him to be a stick in the mud but Paul let it go without blinking. 

“I’ve seen you round,” John admitted. He was proud of the cool way he looked at him, like he didn’t care one way or the other. “My name’s…”

“John,” Paul finished. 

  


_(He knew John’s name._

_And when he said it John felt his mouth go bone dry._

_His cock stiffen instantly._

_“That’s right, Paul.”_

_He sounded so casual he barely recognised his own voice._

_John said a little prayer of thanks to all the saints he could remember._

_And Winston Churchill._

_Elvis._

_Phil and Don Everly._

_John said a prayer to all his angels that he managed to just stand there and keep his hands to himself._

_He wanted to grab Paul._

_Rub himself against him like a cat.)_

  


Paul leaned over to tuck the end of the magazine under John’s t-shirt. He smiled guilelessly.

“There you go, safe as houses.”

The shock was all-consuming. John couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The boy from his dream placed his hand on John’s cock. If he hadn’t been so stunned he would have pinched himself. 

  


_(Was this real?_

_Was it?_

_Surely he was hallucinating?_

_Surely this was a dream?_

_Paul looked into John’s eyes and grinned._

_Who are you?)_

  


John’s cock was rock hard against the boy’s hand with only the fabric of his tight trousers between them. Then he heard a thrumming in his ears, the sound of guitars singing, a hundredfold, a lyric he couldn’t quite grasp until he gripped it with both hands. He leaned forward and felt like he was falling…

  


_(…down the rabbit hole, his whole body pulsing with light._

_**Oh yeah, all right,** _

_**Are you going to be in** _

_**Are you going to be in** _

_**Are you going to be in my dreams** _

_**Tonight?** _

_He felt a hand reach down and pull him upright. They were standing on a field of green, the lights were in their eyes, blinding them. They stood so close they were almost touching._

_Paul looked so at ease._

_So at home in the spotlight._

_John would have been jealous but how could he be?_

_There were no borders._

_No boundaries._

_They were no longer separate._

_They turned rivalry into creation._

_**Come on and make it all right…** _

_John’s hair was in his eyes, he shook his head, droplets of sweat flying. He caught Paul’s gaze. He was falling again. Falling faster, his stomach plummeting, his heart shuddering, it knocked him right off his feet._

_In bits and pieces, through the smoke and twinkling lights he saw a mass of people, laughing and swaying in brightly-coloured clothing and beads, their long hair flying as they danced._

_**... a crowd of people stood and stared…** _

_He saw him across the room, it felt like they were embracing though they stood too far apart to touch. John could feel Paul’s long body against his, his breath against his hair. The way his hand moved over his back possessively. They stood cheek to cheek, dancing like lovers._

_**I’d love to turn you on.** _

_In bed, the sheets tangled beneath them, they clasped each other still, locked in a dancer’s pose except lying down. Naked, they moved to their own rhythm, to the music only they could hear. They fell into each other until they were one body, their two minds joined._

_There came a time when John felt so overstimulated his skin shrieked in pain. He pushed Paul away._

_He couldn't bear to look at his face._

_You cunt._

_You sell out._

_Liar._

_**How do you sleep?** _

_**How do you sleep at night?** _

_He carved out the best part of himself._

_Sitting now. Sitting, their bodies bent towards each other, they squinted in the sunlight. They no longer needed to speak out loud._

_**I won’t cry, I won’t cry no I won’t shed a tear** _

_**Just as long** _

_**Just as long** _

_**Stand by me** _

_And then silence._

_Like a vast wasteland._

_The absence of sound made him ache all over._

_He reached out in the darkness, desperate to connect with someone._

_Paul._

_But nobody was around for miles and miles and miles._

_Paul stood alone on a stage. Before him thousands called out, cried, stretched their hands to touch him. He stood alone, a figure bathed in light._

_**And if I said I really love you.** _

_John couldn’t see himself on that stage. But he knew he was somewhere near. Somewhere near, waiting in the wings.)_

  


“Jesus,” John sighed. 

He was shivering. Years had passed, decades, and yet here they still were, in front of the newsstand. Paul McCartney still had his hand on John's prick and was staring at him, eyes challenging and beguiling. John leaned against Paul's hand slightly, wishing he could cover it with his own and rub at himself until he came in his trousers.

Paul was laughing like he could read John's thoughts. Maybe he could. John looked up and saw how his whole face was animated, his lips twitching and quirking into a wide grin as if he couldn't help himself. John thought about leaning forward to kiss that mouth through its broad smile but he lost his nerve in the end. Then, before he could say another word, Paul flung himself onto his bicycle and peddled away.

He was still trembling all over from the experience. Part of him was still scrambling back up the rabbit hole, still blinking in and out of those memories like a broken lightbulb. Memories. Is that what they were? John had lived a lifetime in the space of less than a minute and all he wanted to do was catch up with Paul and start living. 

John ran home as fast as he could in the rain. His shoes, that had once belonged to Uncle George, had slick leather soles, and were worn thin in some places. By the time he reached Mendips he had nearly fallen twice and his feet were soaked through to the bone, he’d lost the magazine somewhere along the way. He sat down in front of the house out of breath, heart jumping out of his chest and waited for Paul McCartney to cycle past with the newspaper.

John stood up just as Paul passed and tossed the paper at the door. The boy was was waving as he passed. Without his glasses on he couldn't be sure but something told him Paul was smiling at him. John couldn't smile back. He was fighting an impulse to run after the boy. To follow him till the end of the line. Keep on following him the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who patiently waited for this chapter.  
> It was a horror to write and edit and I almost gave up on it because I disliked it so so so much. But here it is...only months later...
> 
> Thank you so much to @swaying-daisies for loving this fic so much and always being supportive and reassuring me.
> 
> Thanks to celebratorypenguin. You're a doll and I adore you. Thanks for reading through it and commenting and letting me bitch and moan.
> 
> Thank you @bakerstreetafternoon for reading and assuring me I could finish it. And just generally being lovely.
> 
> Thank you my dear JaneScarlett for reading, being a darling and generally supporting my Beatles craze.
> 
> Thank you very very much to Twinka. As always without your unflagging support and your clever eye and your knack with patterns and timing this chapter would be pure garbage. You are fabulous and I couldn't do it without you.
> 
> Songs used in this chapter:
> 
> Let It Be, The Beatles 
> 
> Yesterday, The Beatles 
> 
> If I Fell, The Beatles 
> 
> I Want To Hold Your Hand, The Beatles 
> 
> A White Sport Coat And A Pink Carnation, Marty Robbins 
> 
> The End, The Beatles 
> 
> Twist And Shout, The Beatles (Medley and Berns)
> 
> A Day In The Life, The Beatles 
> 
> How Do You Sleep? John Lennon
> 
> Stand By Me, John Lennon (King, Leiber, Stoller)
> 
> Here Today, Paul McCartney 
> 
> I Can See For Miles, The Who

**Author's Note:**

> In order to write this fic I did a fair amount of research which I then tossed into a corner of my room and went with what felt right. 
> 
> Thank you to my cousin, Cool, for listening to me go on about this for weeks and also for reading my rough draft.
> 
> Special thanks to Sleeprettydarling for the thorough and carefully thought through editing. Your suggestions really helped me to make this a better piece. I really appriciate everything you put into it. I think it would have been a poor fic without your help. I can be a difficult person to work with so thank you for being so understanding.
> 
> Thank you my darling Twinka for weathering my tantrums and insecurity. The best part of writing is seeing your reaction to what I wrote.
> 
> Thank you to Janescarlett and Single-Pigeon you two are such firm fixtures in my writing process I can't thank you enough.
> 
> Happy Anniversary John and Paul. You two make the world a better place every day your music is in it.


End file.
